


Slow Boat to China

by palecrepegold



Series: Billie's Blues [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Lullabies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-15 15:59:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5791726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/palecrepegold/pseuds/palecrepegold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Billie's slowly figuring out how to live in the world she woke up to, by adding in pieces of the life she had before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slow Boat to China

She hadn’t sung since before the war.

Who could, waking up to the world that had greeted her after 210 years in the deep freeze? This world--the radiation, the mutations, the violence--who could find a damn thing to sing about in all that? Survival wasn’t joyous, wasn’t melodic. It was dark and cold and atonal, and its harsh sounds filled her mind from sun-up to sundown and pushed every other sweeter note straight out of her mind. Compared to what else she had lost, it was only a small sacrifice.

But there had been a time when even her speaking voice had a lilt to it. Friday evenings where she’d dress up in kitten heels and pearls and head down to the VFW to sing for the old vets who’d sit close around her in folding chairs, one or another with tears forming in the corners of his rheumy eyes as she sang “Keep the Home-Fires Burning” and “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.” There were the cocktail parties where, after a few highballs, one friend or another would cajole her into singing something soulful or rollicking or raunchy. Before she was military, when she was still young and more than a little bit in trouble, there had been the smoke-filled clubs and speakeasies, in that gold sequin wiggle dress that cut into her soft underarms and went over her hips as tight as second skin. That girl would sing jazz until closing time and no one ever guessed she was underage. That girl, the one who took her payment in lines and didn’t go home until sunrise. That girl would’ve died if she had to stop singing.

The woman, who came much later, now kept locked away deep in her heart the nights she sang “You Are My Sunshine” while she paced around the nursery with a collicky Shaun in her arms. And wondered if this little cooing and wiggling thing might grow up to be just as wild as she had been.

Every so often, a snippet of a song on the radio would bring one or another of those memories to the fore. And even when she didn’t notice it, the songs were there in the background, worming their way into the part of her brain that remembered peaceful living. It took months before she startled herself by humming along to “Atom Bomb Baby” while she stripped and cleaned her rifle. Another half a dozen weeks, and she was whistling “Crazy He Calls Me” into the dark night on one or another long hike from settlement to settlement. If she’d stopped to think about it, she wouldn’t have been surprised; it was in her blood, after all. She wasn’t the same person she’d been, but that person was still a part of her.

And probably, she would’ve started singing again, eventually. When things got more stable, a little more quiet. When she finally found Shaun and brought him home. When she really understood that the people who had chosen to follow her were there for good, that they trusted her, that she had brought them together to make something better than what they’d had before. But that time came faster because of Mac. 

She slept a lot less than he did. Maybe because of the deep freeze, maybe because she was older, maybe because he’d been pushing himself on too little food and too much responsibility for nearly his entire life. But she liked that about being with him. Even in the field he slept like a rock when he could and woke up immediately when she shook his shoulder for his watch. And back in Sanctuary, with no imminent disaster looming overhead, he gave himself over to sleep completely. No fitfullness, no long hours staring at the ceiling waiting for his mind to finally turn off. He told her he didn’t even dream. She envied that the most. She’d give up years of her life if it meant no more dreaming.

So, some nights, she watched him, and it was almost as good as being able to sleep herself. When he was awake, when he wasn’t looking, she watched him then too, but even after they left friendship behind she still felt embarrassed whenever he’d turn suddenly and catch her eyeline. It revealed a little too much about how she felt about him, more than she was ready for. But there was no such risk while he was asleep. She could study the shape of him, his too-thick hair mussed by the pillow, the little lines in the corners of his eyes no one his age should have. It was almost a meditative thing; she let the rest of the world go, luxuriated in the little warm space they’d made inside a hard world. 

It made sense her songs would come back to her during those nights. The old favorites, the ones she never heard on the radio. Sometimes she could hear them as clearly as if she’d put on the hi-fi. And, well, hadn’t she always liked to sing along?

She watched him, and the words came out softly.

_I'd love to get you_

_On a slow boat to China_

_All to myself, alone_

_Get you and keep you_

_In my arms forever more_

_Leave all your lovers_

_Weepin’ on a far-away shore_

She stopped. Why this song? By the time she reached adulthood, any mention of China that wasn’t bluntly condemnatory was considered sedition. The song went back farther than that, though, back to when her voice was transitioning from sweet and childish to something huskier, deeper. Back to singing along to her Pops’ favorites, songs that were already classics by the time he was born. He’d play Sammy singing it, most often; he was his favorite of that old generation of singers. And she sang along, eyes closed and body swaying, trying to see that boat out there in the waves. Imagined being on its deck with one school crush or another, just trying out the image to see how it made her feel. But she’d never quite liked it. A little pinch in her stomach would come sometimes, when she imagined being stuck on that boat with Ralphie or Bobby or Dean (or any other flavor of the week). What would they do, what would she _say_? But she could tell from Pops, the look on his wrinkled face, that he found the song deeply romantic. He saw a song about two people in love, sailing out without any care as to the destination. Separate from the troubles of the world around them, the people they knew, the lovers they’d had before. It hit her harder now, how decadent that sounded, how impossible. To be alone in your love, live in it and let it float you from port to port. 

Her voice was a little bit stronger when she took the song up again.

_Out on the briny_

_With the moon big and shiny_

_Melting your heart of stone_

_Honey I'd love to get you_

_On a slow boat to China_

_All by myself alone_

_I'd love to get ya_

_On a slow boat to China_

_All to myself alone_

She knew her singing wouldn’t wake him, but when he turned over in his sleep for a moment she hoped it would. She’d sing and turn to see him listening, wearing a little secret smile that meant _look at her, that’s my girl_. And she’d crawl back into bed and into his arms, everything warm with sleep, and he might whisper in her ear _never knew you could sing like that, Billie girl, how’re you gonna surprise me next?_ Ahh, but that would be cheating, and she knew it. She had to offer up her secrets, openly, not set traps so that he stumbled into them. Had to decide to be with him without holding back, one foot in the past. And she _was_ trying. She was.

So tonight, she slipped out of her clothes and into bed next to him in silence, like always. Pressed her back into him, threw one of his arms over her. His body always knew to squeeze and hold onto her then. Easy as breathing. And as she fell asleep, she thought about how she’d tell him. _Baby, did I ever tell you what I used to do before the military, when I was just a kid? Well, you know how we were talking about Vera Keyes the other day? It was a little bit like that...just a little…and you should’ve seen me in the dresses I’d wear…_

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first in what will hopefully be a series about Sole Survivor Billie, inspired by the soundtrack of Fallouts 3/NV/4 and the music of the 1950s, as well as by some of the biographical details of another Billie who liked to sing. Hope you enjoy it and thank you for reading. And please consider leaving a comment, I'd love to hear from you!


End file.
